25 Bombs Fell: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Series, 25BF Season 1

by A. K. Meek

  He slung his backpack onto the desktop covered in old, creased, Army manuals and field survival guides. He rifled through his pack, looking for his notebook.

  Will pitched the manual he was reading, The Everyman’s Dosimeter Guide, onto the pile. “I think I need to make a speech.” He slumped a little into his chair.

  “You probably do,” Nate said, “at least to settle things down.”

  “I’ve tried to think of what to say. Something to calm everyone.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair like a comb.

  “Can anything you say do that?”

  “I guess we’ll find out. But I need to do something. Give them hope, even though I’m not sure I have it myself.”

  “That’s a pretty tough sell, given we’re trapped in here like rats, and the world is exploding a few feet above our heads.”

  Will stood. “Colton, Bruce, come here.” He turned back to Nate. “Exactly. Maybe that’s why I need to say something.”

  The two came from the armory. Colton carried a holstered gun in a belt and pitched it to Will. “Here’s your sidearm, King William. This way no one will forget who’s in charge.”

  He caught the belt and studied it, then sat it on the desk. “I don’t think I need that, yet. I’m going to talk to the group, but I want them to know what I’ve already done with you three.”

  “Should we grab a rifle?” Bruce said.

  Will turned to him. “For what?” he said, shaking his head.

  He opened the door to the main hall and paused. Outside, two male voices argued over who would get to sleep in the bunks tonight.

  Will shut the door and went back to his desk, grabbed the belt and holster, and lashed it to his hip and leg. “Maybe I do need something.”

  The five left the office into the main hall.

  The arguing died, replaced by whispers of curiosity as the crowd focused on Will. He continued to the long table that held food and personal items.

  At first he moved some items like he was going to stand on it, much like Efrem, but then he grabbed one of the metal folding chairs and carefully stood on it.

  “Uhm, hello,” he said as the room silenced, waiting for his wisdom. “Thank you for, uhm, electing me.” The chair under him wobbled and Nate grabbed the sides to keep it in place. Will gave him a quick smile, then continued. “Several have asked for me to make a speech, so here I am, giving one. A speech.” He glanced down at Nate and swallowed hard. “Well, we need to find what we have to use. The skills we—”

  “When are you going to get us out of here?” A man’s voice, thick with a southern accent, broke through.

  Will raised a cautionary hand. “That’s what I’m talking about. We need to know what everybody brings to the table, so here—”

  “So no more bombs?” Another man, this time younger, interrupted. “You’re saying the bombs stopped? Who was it? The Russians?”

  People murmured, giving their opinions on who they thought bombed America.

  Will listened for a minute. He shook his head. “I’m not saying the bombs stopped. For now they have.”

  “Look, he has a gun.” A woman pointed. “Why does he have a gun?”

  The low murmurs grew. Several raised their voices.

  “When do we get ours?”

  “Why doesn’t everyone have a gun?”

  Will’s head dropped and he raised his arms in the air. “Listen. We need order. You wanted me to establish order. I’ll do that. We need security. Colton and Bruce are in charge of that.” He pointed to them. “I also need to know what skills we have as a group. Nate’s in charge of that. Once we find out, then we can decide what’s next.”

  “What’s next? What are we going to do?”

  “You’re missing the point,” Will said, sweeping his hair away from his forehead. “Once we do this, then we can talk about where we go from here. First things first.”

  More grumbling from the crowd. Will bent down to step off the chair but then stood back up, taller.

  “You elected me.” He pointed to the group. “You gave me this responsibility. I’m going to do what I think is best for us. I want to know what each one of you brings to the table. After that, we can discuss what to do. For now, sit tight and take care of each other. We’re all stuck in here together.” He jumped off the chair and pushed through the crowd, headed back to his office.

  Nate tried to keep up with him. “I’ll get started right away,” he said.

  Will paused before entering his office. “That sucked,” he said, rubbing his neck. “Guess the pistol wasn’t a good idea after all.” He went in and slammed the door.

  The day began like the last, which began like the one before that. The only difference was that each new day smelled a little worse than the previous.

  Nate grabbed a napkin off the desk and blew his nose, hoping to blow the stink out of it, but that tactic didn’t work.

  Will had let him use the office so that he could work distraction-free. He grabbed his backpack, his last piece of sanity from the world above, unzipped it, and smiled when his wandering hand found his emergency candy bar at the bottom of the bag. He’d carried one ever since that time he got lost while on a day hike. He tucked the bar safely back in its place, then shifted his business laptop aside and found what he was searching for.

  A scribe needs a book.

  His name was neatly hand-written on the center of the black and white composition book’s cover. He flipped through the pages. The first three were covered in handwriting: notes from previous business meetings and interviews. He skimmed over the notes he had taken, written with meticulous depth, cataloging conversations about personnel and logistic resources.

  Not much good for anything now. He ripped out the useless pages and tossed them aside.

  Settling in, leaning back in the rickety office chair, he stared at a blank page and tapped his teeth with his pen. His mind flooded with a thousand thoughts.

  “If you define people you meet in context, it provides a backdrop to understand them,” Professor Fazi had told Nate’s college class on Cognitive Thinking. “For example,” he continued, “if you’re at a party and you’ve already met thirty people, then another introduces himself as Bob. Who’s going to remember Bob? I sure wouldn’t.”

  The class laughed, except for one. The professor looked at him. “No offense, Robert.”

  He smiled, and then continued. “But let’s say Bob was walking to you and stumbled on the edge of the carpet. Stumbling Bob introduces himself. I may not remember Bob, but I sure will remember Stumbling Bob. You created a context, a box, to remember Bob.”

  Nate nodded. He had already used it in the shelter.

  Postmaster Charles, the older black man that led him to the shelter.

  Nate wrote his name in the composition book. Then there was Tattoo Colton, the rough-looking white guy. What was his last name? Nate skipped several lines and wrote the name “Colton” under Postmaster Charles.

  The office door swung open with a bang against the wall. The thin black girl stood in the doorway, dancing. She spun and flung her spindly arms wildly about. Gracefulness wasn’t in her, but she moved with carefree ease. She hopped until dizziness overcame her and she stumbled to the dusty concrete floor, but she didn’t care. She wiped the dust from her knees and began a new dance, one that sent her braids twirling about her head.

  Finally she paused, gasping for air. Her large grin sparkled with vibrancy against her dark skin.

  “Momma said you’re gonna talk to everyone,” she said as her scrawny chest heaved.

  Nate had never considered her, or any of the younger kids for that matter; he thought their contributions would probably be small, no more than saving the princess or remembering the name of Ninja Turtles.

  Or whatever they watched nowadays.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, staring at a black speck on a wall, hoping this wouldn’t take long. “Do you think your mom is looking for you? Maybe you should go find her.”

&n
bsp; The girl spun on one tiptoe and pointed wildly in a direction toward the main hall. “Momma’s over there, helping bro.”

  “Should you go find someone to play with? Have you eaten? I think it’s time to eat.” He checked his watch.

  “I’m tired of that nasty food. It makes my tummy hurt and I can’t use the bathroom. Do you want to know what I can do?”

  Nate let out a long sigh. He began looking through Will’s desk, opening, searching the drawers. Most were empty, except for the last one at the bottom. The drawer was stuck and he yanked. It popped open with a loud snap.

  He grabbed a random military manual from the drawer. “Okay. I’ve got to write some things,” his voice dripping in sugar, “but I need you to do something very important for me.” He held up the manual. “I need you to memorize this for me. You can read, can’t you?”

  She hesitated, then gave a slight nod.

  “Good.” He handed the manual to her. “You promise to do this, right? Gotta say ‘I promise.’”

  The girl held up her left hand and said, “I promise.” She giggled and snatched the manual from his hand and ran just outside the office and plopped to the floor.

  Nate turned back to his composition book now that she was out of his hair.

  Of course Cable Guy William Parsons. Will. The President. Nate had nominated him for President. Anyone but Wal-Mart Bruce. Nate wrote Will’s name down.

  He was number three.

  After an hour, Nate had finished purging his memory of everyone he could think of into his composition book, along with skills they had already displayed, and decided to start the interview process with the rest of the group.

  He stepped over the little black girl into the main hall and stared at the mass that milled about the shelter, the same they had done for the past couple days.

  How was the best way to accomplish the task Will gave him? Male, then female? Oldest to youngest? If so, then Efrem, his wife, or the other old man, the one with wild hair and the odd eye, would surely be first.

  Against any reasoning or planning, Nate stopped a lady as she walked by. She wore a jogging suit and her tousled hair was pulled back into a pigtail. She looked familiar.

  “Excuse me, do you have a moment?” Nate said in his best professional voice, the one that he used in client interviews. “Will asked that I talk to everyone in the Ark so that we can know the skills at our disposal.”

  “Skills at our disposal?” she said, laughing. “Yeah, I heard. You make it sound so formal.” Her smile lasted for a moment and then her brow furrowed, like she was remembering something from long ago. She cocked her head to one side and pointed at him. “Do I know you? Do you live in town?”

  “In Haven? No, I was just passing through.”

  “You!” she screamed.

  Her open palm caught him on the side of his face. Her ring dug deep into his soft cheek.

  “What—” Nate grabbed his burning cheek.

  She swung again as she burst into tears, but he dodged the second slap. “You. You were the one on the steps. I asked you to help my baby. You saw me. You saw me.” She trembled and clutched the thin sweater that was wrapped over her shoulders.

  He moved from her but then she lunged forward, slamming her small fists into his shoulders. “You saw my baby,” she yelled.

  Two men and a woman ran over and grabbed the hysterical woman by her arms, restraining her.

  “What happened?” one of the men said.

  “I don’t know.” Nate shrugged, dabbing at his cheek. The seeping blood tickled his skin. “She’s upset about her baby.”

  “Meredith was separated from her baby during the bombing,” the lady said as she wrapped her arms around the crying woman. “He was only a year old.”

  Nate did remember her. He couldn’t look at the crying ring lady, at Meredith, when she was fighting with the stroller as he entered the courthouse.

  Yes, he did turn away.

  The baby in the stroller, she needed help, his help. If he’d just taken a minute, maybe Meredith and her baby would both be safe inside the shelter. Or maybe they’d all be dead. Those moments were so chaotic. Who knew what was going on?

  A crowd of spectators had formed around the scene.

  The cut stung, but not as much as the embarrassment. He got up to leave as others calmed the lady with the devastating ring.

  “I’ll never forgive you!” she yelled through sobs as he walked away.

  The spectators, crammed and bent in the shelter in misery, still longed to see others in worse conditions than their own. Through this they could feel they didn’t have it so bad.

  At least that’s why he would’ve watched.

  So much for the first interview. This was going to take him forever.

  A black lady and her teenage son were sitting at one of the folded tables, eating. Nate slammed his book onto the top and dropped onto a metal chair next to them. They watched him for a moment, then murmured to each other in sickening fascination, eyes glued on him.

  Charles, chewing on a peanut-butter-covered cracker, came from the kitchen. “Hey, Nate, what happened to your face?” he said, wiping crumbs from his beard.

  “Meredith. She attacked me, slapped me, when I tried talking to her.”

  “I know her,” Charles said. “I can’t imagine her attacking you.”

  “I don’t think I can do this.” Nate huffed. “I talk to people all day long at work. But this, this is different. The emotion, it crushes me. I can’t relate to this. I’m not used to this.”

  Charles swallowed the last of his snack and took a drink from his canteen. He was slow to respond, but from the short time since Nate had met him, he knew he could rely on Charles’ measured words.

  “I don’t think anyone has experienced this before,” Charles said. “She lost her baby,” pointing at Meredith, “maybe for good. She’s wondering if her child is dead or alive, and you’re concerned about yourself, whether you can handle being yelled at and slapped. I’m sorry if I don’t have much sympathy for you at the moment.” He spread his arms to the room. “We’re all in here wondering about our loved ones. Will asked you to do one simple thing. I never thought you couldn’t do it. Maybe I thought wrong.”

  Charles walked away from the table.

  The mother and son that were at the table quietly scooped their empty food packages together and left.

  Nate’s hand trembled. He looked at his own clothes. A filthy dress shirt, filthy dress pants, and a company laptop he carried around in his backpack, as if at any moment he would be able to walk out of this filthy hole in the ground and resume his job and his life.

  What did they think of him? He was no better prepared than anyone else in here.

  Will had given him one thing to do. He had to talk to someone to give him a sense of purpose when nothing else seemed to matter.

  Colton stood off to the side, talking to a couple guys, all three laughing. He was always laughing. One of the few that was able to do it in this hole. Nate approached the trio.

  “Hey, it’s our bookkeeper,” Colton said, motioning to his friends. “This here’s Jacob and Brand—Brandon.” They gave head nods. “So what’s happening?” Colton said.

  Nate gave a small wave to Brandon, the red-haired young man with the radio. Jacob looked big and white, like any other big Georgia boy. “Colton, got a minute?” He held up his notebook.

  “For you, anytime.”

  “That’s alright,” Jacob said. “We’re gonna get some food.” The two walked.

  “You know,” Nate said, “this is for Will.”

  Colton examined his cheek. “Yeah. Hey, what happened to your face? You get in a fight?”

  “Something like that. Surprised you didn’t hear.” Nate rubbed his wound from the ring. He propped his foot on a box next to Colton. “So, what’s your job on the outside?”

  “I’d say I’m between jobs right now. But normally I’m a professor.” He picked his teeth with his long pinky nail.
>
  Nate laughed. “Professor of Etiquette?” he said.

  Now Colton laughed. “You know, Nate, I like you.”

  “Thanks. So do you know anyone in here?”

  “Well, a few I’ve seen around town. Jacob,” he motioned with his head, “the Jones family, Bruce, Amber.”

  “You know Bruce and Amber?”

  “Yeah, you could say I know her.” Colton smiled wider and continued picking his teeth, nodding. “We grew up together, on La Grange Street, over on the west end.”

  The interview lasted another fifteen minutes. Although Colton didn’t have a regular job, he had killed and eaten every type of animal in Georgia, several times over.

  After Colton, Nate had a better idea of what to ask.

  Over the next couple of days, Nate met with every adult to interview them.

  He sat in Will’s office and filled out the gaps between the names he had written in his composition book. Colton, the hunter. Efrem and his wife, Teddy Bear Jordana. He was a retired jeweler, she a socialite.

  Will, a cable repairman. A grocery store manager, postman, a special-needs adult, stay-at-home mom, day laborer. Each person received a number on the wide-ruled notebook paper next to their name, above three lines that summarized their lives in bullet format.

  He closed his eyes and leaned away from the desk, stretching his back. When he opened them, the skinny black girl, Desiree, stood in front of his desk, chest heaving, smiling, sweat dotting her forehead.

  Nate let out a long, exaggerated sigh, which probably meant nothing to her. He had practiced it so frequently that it became a routine, like now. He rubbed his temples. She probably didn’t notice this, either. He counted to twenty and opened his eyes. She still stood there, staring at him.

  “Okay,” he said, tapping his book with his pen. “What can you do?”

  Suddenly, as if she were operated by a switch, she appeared shy. She looked over his shoulder, to his right hand, then to the ceiling above, but not at him.